CHAPTER 9 #2
“Tell me about the man who hurt you, Annie, and try to remember exactly what he said.”
“His name is Arnie Stackpole, and he came here hoping to find Margot.”
“I’ve heard of the man. You needn’t fear him now that Margot is dead.”
She raised her eyes from her cup. “I’m hoping that’s true. Owing him money, Margot was, and giving him the slip. ‘I’ll have the other half of twenty pounds for them,’ he shouted at me. ‘I’ll not deliver the goods until I’m paid.’”
“What goods? Had they been in business together?”
Annie shrugged. “I didn’t want to know, and I wasn’t asking.”
“You haven’t a guess?” Tennant took a sip and watched her over the rim of his cup.
Annie shook her head. “He wanted her address, but he’d not be having it off me.”
“Refusing a man wielding a knife—that was brave of you, Annie.”
“He has the look of an angel with his fair, curly hair. Until he opens his trap, that is. Then he looks like someone took a hammer to his teeth. But he’s a devil, that one.”
“Stackpole didn’t murder Margot. He was in prison when it happened. What about other men in her life? Had you ever seen Margot in the company of Mister Allingham’s manservant? Rawlings is his name.”
Annie touched her mouth. “The one with the lip, you’re meaning?”
Tennant nodded.
“Thick as thieves, they were, while Margot was living here. It puzzled me, him turning up with notes, left and right.”
“Love letters?”
“Never. Not with the likes of him. Lists of dates and times and numbers, they were. Couldn’t make head nor tail of them.”
“I’d like to look at Margot’s old room, if I may. Did she leave anything behind after she left?”
“You’re welcome, but you’ll not find anything.” Annie opened a bedroom door. “Clean as a whistle, it was, and all her bags and boxes gone.”
Tennant looked inside a bare cabinet and three equally empty bureau drawers.
Tennant crossed to Annie’s front door to examine the two bolts that secured it. The bottom one looked new. He looked around the rest of the room. Too many bloody windows.
Tennant rattled the doorknob and said, “Best keep your door double-bolted and on the chain, even in the daytime.”
“I’ll not be opening up to anyone I don’t know. Of that, you can be sure.”
“The father of Margot’s child . . . Can you tell me his name?”
Annie flushed. “’Tis hard to speak ill of the dead. Margot wasn’t one for keeping her knees together, as my old aunt would say. Keeping her mouth shut? She was champion at that. I’m only guessing, but . . .”
“Yes?”
She sighed. “It can’t matter now, seeing as they’re both dead. I’m thinking Mister Allingham was Margot’s man. I can’t be certain, but it may have been so.”
“Thank you.”
“I felt bad about thinking it when I saw Miss Allingham the other day at the clinic. He was a married man and her big brother. She thought the world of him.”
* * *
The following morning, Sergeant O’Malley said, “So Charles Allingham was Margot Miller’s fancy man.”
“Annie claims she’s not certain, but I think she is,” Tennant said. “But where does it get us? A married man with a strong motive who died before he could kill her.”
O’Malley handed a slip to the inspector. “There’s a note to you from the man’s sister. Her coachman dropped it off late yesterday afternoon.”
Tennant unfolded and read it. Sergeant O’Malley asked about Rawlings. Louisa has no forwarding address, but I thought of something. Charles made small bequests to all the servants, his valet among them. Perhaps Mister Eastlake, our solicitor, knows his whereabouts.
“A promising line of inquiry,” Tennant said. “And Miss Allingham supplied the lawyer’s address on Chancery Lane.”
A cab carried Tennant and O’Malley as far as Lincoln’s Inn gate.
They dodged the congested street traffic by paying off the driver and continuing on foot.
A choking, gray fog had settled in, so they had to take care as they walked the rest of the way.
At the street’s end, they found the offices of Eastlake and Hepburn.
Inside, a balding clerk dressed in sober black inclined his head when they asked for Eastlake. He retreated silently through an inner doorway.
O’Malley said, “His man couldn’t be more buttoned-up if he’d been sewn into that suit.”
The clerk reappeared as noiselessly as he had departed. “This way, gentlemen,” he murmured, ushering them into the inner sanctum.
Cyril Eastlake stood behind a broad mahogany desk in a room that smelled of pipe tobacco and lemon polish. Papers littered much of the leather desk surface. Sets of legal volumes and stacks of black boxes filled the walls, each case fitted with a lock and surname lettered in gold.
The solicitor didn’t offer his hand; instead, he gestured to two chairs whose seats bore wear marks from generations of clients. O’Malley stayed on his feet while Tennant settled into a chair.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mister Eastlake.”
“What is it you want?”
Still smarting over the search of Allingham’s rooms, Tennant thought. “We’re investigating a young woman’s murder and seeking a person of interest. Miss Allingham suggested you might know Herbert Rawlings’s address. He was a beneficiary in Charles Allingham’s will, I believe.”
“That is correct.”
Tennant waited, expecting a question about the murder victim’s identity. None came. “What sum did Mister Allingham leave his valet?”
When Eastlake hesitated, O’Malley said, “Wills are a matter of public record. Will you be forcing the inspector to make the trip to Somerset House to look it up?”
“My sergeant makes a point. Must we do this the hard way?”
The lawyer cleared his throat. “The estate paid Herbert Rawlings the sum of fifteen hundred pounds.”
“A sizable bequest,” Tennant said. “Was Mister Allingham as generous with his other servants?”
“A hundred pounds each to the coachman and housekeeper. Fifty pounds to the other servants.”
Tennant said, “You’ve informed Rawlings of his good fortune, I take it? At what address?”
“I corresponded with him at a coffeehouse that lets rooms, although he may be gone by now. He mentioned a desire to emigrate to America.”
O’Malley took out his notebook. “I’m thinking the coffeehouse has a name and address. Making a meal of it, you are . . . sir.”
Eastlake glared at the sergeant. “The Chapter Coffeehouse on Paternoster Row. My clerk can give you the street number on the way out.”
“Paternoster Row?” O’Malley looked up from his pad. “That’ll be just down the road from the offices of Allingham and Allen.”
“Yes.”
The inspector asked, “Did the will include other surprises?”
“Well . . .”
Tennant waited. “You may as well tell me. As Sergeant O’Malley observed, I can find the information I need at Somerset House.”
“Charles left fifteen thousand pounds to Margaret Miller.”
“Fifteen thousand quid,” O’Malley whistled softly. “The devil he did.”
“She was to receive only the interest on the sum, which amounted to about five hundred pounds a year, paid quarterly. The principal reverts to the estate as the legatee is now deceased.”
“You knew about Margot Miller’s death,” Tennant said.
“From the newspapers.”
“And you had no intention of telling me about the bequest until I dragged it out of you.”
Eastlake cleared his throat. “Well, I—”
“By God, Mister Eastlake, I have a mind to charge you with obstructing a police investigation.”
“I had a duty to—”
“You are a court officer,” Tennant snapped. “And a servant of the queen. Your duty lies there, sir. What was Mrs. Allingham’s reaction at the reading of the will?”
“Well . . .” The lawyer shifted uneasily. “I merely summarized the contents. Mrs. Allingham never asked me to name the persons or sums in question.”
“That is highly unusual, is it not, Mister Eastlake?”
“The implications were painfully obvious, Inspector. I wanted to spare Louisa the knowledge of her husband’s infidelity.”
“Quarterly payments, is it?” O’Malley said. “That’s a hundred and twenty-five quid four times a year. You’d not be handing it to her over your desk.”
“Miss Miller gave me her banking particulars. The first quarterly deposit was made two weeks ago.”
O’Malley waved his notebook. “You’ll be giving us that information as well.”
Eastlake opened an address book and scribbled on a slip of paper.
Tennant asked, “Did Margot Miller leave a will?”
“Our firm did not prepare one for her.” He handed Tennant the address of the West London Bank on Sloane Square in Chelsea.
“Thank you.” The inspector passed the information to O’Malley and stood.
Eastlake, scowling, rang the bell for his clerk.
Tennant eyed him for a moment. “You take a lot on yourself, Mister Eastlake. Mrs. Allingham is a grown woman, not a child.” He nodded curtly. “Good day to you.”
On the pavement, O’Malley said, “So, little Annie O’Neill was right. Charles Allingham was keeping Margot Miller.”
“Let’s head to the coffeehouse,” Tennant said. “High time we ran the elusive Mister Rawlings to ground.”
But the Chapter House clerk told them Rawlings had checked out four days before. The clerk provided one piece of pertinent news: Rawlings had received letters from the publishers Allingham and Allen.
Outside the coffeehouse, O’Malley said, “The fella is writing letters to Allingham and Allen and then he scarpers.”
“I’ll have another chat with Mister Sidney Allen.” The inspector pulled out his watch. “It’s nearly three. We’ve missed the Chelsea bank manager. He’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
“Banker’s hours,” O’Malley grumbled, raising his arm for a cab. “Nice for some.”
* * *
Without a court order, an inquiry about a depositor’s account ordinarily elicited a starchy refusal to cooperate. But a murder investigation had wilted the Chelsea bank manager’s resistance. Tennant returned to the Yard in the morning with the banking information he’d sought.
O’Malley looked up from the copy of Margot’s account and blew out his cheeks. “Mother of God, nearly five thousand quid?”
“That’s the sum, Paddy.”
“That gives holy Joe and young Micah one hell of a motive. They’re next of kin.”
“They’d have to know about the money, and I’d wager Margot kept that information close to the vest. As to her inheritance, don’t forget the principal reverts to the Allingham estate.”
“Even without it, she’s leaving five thousand pounds for them to pocket.” O’Malley scanned the dates. “Deposits nearly every week. Micah was in the habit of following her around. He might have trailed her to the bank and guessed she had a pile on her.”
“A sharp fellow would know that few shopgirls have bank accounts. But does Micah Miller seem bright to you?”
“Thick as a plank, I’m thinking.”
Tennant tapped on a report. “What do you make of Micah’s alibi for the day of Margot’s murder? Picking up a coil from the ropemakers, walking about, and visiting some unnamed pub?”
“’Tis thin. But it’s got me wondering. . . .”
“About?”
“Remember that bawdy house guide we found under the bed?”
“You think Micah spent the afternoon and a few shillings in questionable company? Why not say so?”
“Old holy Joe would be praying and psalming over the lad all day and night, the poor sod.”
“The coppers in Poplar will point you in the right direction.”
O’Malley nodded. “If Micah has an alibi, we can cross the creature off our list.”
Tennant pulled out his pocket watch. “While you head over to Poplar, I’ll have a conversation with Mister Sidney Allen about these letters to Rawlings.
* * *
Sidney Allen was more wary at his second interview, and the pretense of cooperation had disappeared.
“I told you aught I know about Charlie. You and those Kensington coppers who came around. What is it now?”
Tennant took off his gloves and laid them across his knee. “I have a few questions about Rawlings, Mister Allingham’s manservant.”
Allen stared while Tennant waited. Finally, the publisher said, “Well? What about him?”
“You wrote to Rawlings at his rooming house. About what, sir?”
“Who says so?”
“Is that a denial?”
“It’s a question.”
“Let me repeat mine,” Tennant said. “What did you say to Rawlings in your letter?”
Allen scowled at his desktop. Then he snatched up a pencil and jammed it back into its holder.
“If you must know, Rawlings wrote and asked about a valet’s position. But I don’t employ a bloody manservant. Told him I can pull on my socks and trousers without help, thank you very much.”
“I understood from Miss Allingham that Rawlings acted as a go-between for you and her brother. What exactly were his duties?”
“These valets are arrogant bastards, the lot of them. Rawlings was no different. But I agreed to write a reference for him, and doesn’t the bugger send two lines back. No thanks, he says. He’s come into some money, and he’s emigrating to America.”
Tennant held Allen’s gaze. “That was the extent of your exchange?”
“Aye.”
“Thank you, Mister Allen. That wasn’t difficult.” Tennant stood. “Good day.”
After he exited, Tennant looked up at the window. Allen stared down; the inspector nodded.
You dodged my last question, Tennant thought. What was Rawlings doing for Allingham and Allen?
Back at the Yard, Tennant found a note from his sergeant.
Poplar has more bawdy houses than a year has Sundays. Finally found the one where the madam remembers Micah turning up with a coil of rope. Fella was otherwise occupied the afternoon Margot was killed.
“Hell and damnation.” Tennant crushed the note in his fist. Every avenue’s a dead end.